The Box, the Squirrel and Lessons in Flying
by evening spirit
Summary: A look inside Grant Ward's head, focusing on his ambiguous "family history". Series of episode codas. Chapter 4: my take on how the scene between May and Ward progressed. You know, the one after the credits for "The Well" rolled. Included in this story, because what I thought fits my general idea explaining Ward's messed-up-ness. Content may be triggering! Warning in the chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** A look inside Grant Ward's head. Chapter One - post 1x05 "Girl in a Flower Dress"

**A/N:** I think that Ward's confession to Skye that "his brother used to beat the crap out of him" was just another Level One overshare and Level Seven (or Eight, or Ten) truth is a little bit more complicated. Just a theory...

**Warning:** WIP. I know where I'm going with this, but I'm not entirely sure I'll be able to get there. I promise I'll try my best to battle RL for the sake of fanfiction. :)

I hope you'll enjoy. :)

* * *

The Box, the Squirrel and Lessons in Flying

* * *

Being friendly was not one of Grant Ward's virtues. In fact he couldn't remember when he'd last been friendly with anyone; he'd neither needed nor wanted to. That night in Hong-Kong, though, he felt like he could identify with Coulson's anguish over the death of the pyrokinetic. With the sense of failure of the mission. He'd been there, in a way, so long ago he could barely remember.

"Sir, you can't save a person from themselves," he offered as means of support, empathy maybe.

He was wrong. What was he thinking, trying to reassure the more experienced agent? His superior was smarter than that.

"Yes you can," he replied. "If you get to them early enough."

He meant Skye and, well, Grant hoped, for Coulson's sake, that the man was right.

He knew better though. What was it supposed to mean "early enough" after all? How early was enough? Coulson was wrong and fate was determined. It was the only truth, especially where those with special abilities were concerned.

Of course Grant didn't think about it all that much. He shrugged at Coulson's remark, went back to the Bus, unpacked his gear, punched some bag, unwound with May. Refused to babysit Skye in Coulson's office. She was Coulson's responsibility after all, even though deep inside Grant was already beginning to feel protective of her too. He didn't want to feel that, didn't need this burden all over again.

Later, as he gaped at the vaulted ceiling of his bunk and his eyes were slowly drifting shut, in that brief space between reality and the realm of dreams, a voice, all too familiar, whispered in his ear, "Poor, stupid Grantey, what do you think you're doing? Do you think you can change me? Help me? I am who I am, Grantey. I am _what_ I am. And you can't save me from that."

It wasn't a nightmare.

Grant Ward didn't do nightmares.

But the memory was disturbing enough so he didn't fall asleep again that night. In the shadows he let himself remember that once, at the beginning of it all, before his life had gone to hell and his big brother had almost killed them all, Grant had wanted to help him. In his childish way he'd tried to understand, prevent bad things from happening, but he'd been scared and that had only made things worse.

In the morning he carefully packed that memory up, locked it in a mental equivalent of a box clearly labeled "don't touch" and put in on a shelf in the deep, dark corner of his brain, where he kept all the memories of his family.

Then, everything was fine again. For a few days.

* * *

t.b.c.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Chapter Two - post 1x06 "Fzzt"

* * *

Waiting might be the hardest thing to do. But it was not, there was one thing harder – the realization that he _was_ waiting. That he was anxious. That he cared.

This realization didn't come until much, much later. First, Grant was simply upset. Like he told Skye – he'd rather it was a super-powered psychopath. He had a thing for super-powered psychopaths, he'd love to get one such in his hands right then and there. But no; wasn't happening. So, the least he could do – he did. In the very moment he guessed what "lowering the cargo-hold ramp" meant, who initiated it and why, Grant Ward's instincts kicked in.

But – he later realized – it was not the instinct of a fighter, of a highly trained black ops specialist. He used his skills, alright, the knowledge how to operate a parachute, how to fall as fast as he could to catch Simmons and still land them safe. But he used them because someone he cared about was in danger. Grant understood this, when he saw Skye run to Jemma and hug her and the expression on Jemma's face and Skye's body language. If the bond between those two was so intense, so soon, then where was he, if not in a similar association with her. Them. All of them.

The thought made him feel nauseous and lightheaded. Grant didn't get close to people. He didn't care that Skye betrayed him in any other way than as one S.H.I.E.L.D. operative betrayed by another. He didn't jump out after Jemma for any other reason than her being his fellow agent. He tried believing it. He wanted to, like believing that gods were nothing more than a myth. No such luck. His attempts at fooling himself were futile, if the sucking void in his stomach was any indication. It was a lie and Grant Ward understood, that he let his guard down. He allowed this team to get under his skin. He allowed himself to like them.

And he didn't want to stop now, even though he knew how bad it would hurt later.

* * *

t.b.c.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Chapter Three - post 1x07 "The Hub"

* * *

They're all bunched together in the rec area of the Bus. Fitz is talking, gesticulating, excited and obviously happy to be alive. Jemma sits next to him, so close their knees are touching. One of her palms rests casually against his thigh, as if it was her own. Her eyes are glued to him and her lips are curled in a soft, affectionate smile. She may not love him like a woman loves a man, but their lives are so intertwined, she might not be able to survive without him and maybe she's just realized that? Like Fitz had about her, a few days ago.

Skye bursts with laughter at some of Fitz's quirky comment. Coulson looks from a distance but he smiles too. It was a tough mission, must have been tougher on him than any of the younger ones realize. Skye simply has no clue about the way S.H.I.E.L.D. works, Fitz and Simmons may only have some vague idea.

Melinda May has emerged from her cave upfront the bus and walks through the lounge then around the command center, her stride brisk, purposeful, like everything about her. If she hadn't shown up when she did, if she hadn't done what she did...

She doesn't notice the figure inside.

Grant stands at the table in the middle of the command center unmoving, invisible behind tinted glass. He was about to join the others. Wanted to talk, to listen, to laugh with them maybe, when something, some fist-punch to the gut, made him stop dead in his tracks.

It was a thought – they're like a family.

Now he sees it again. Melinda stands next to Coulson, leans an inch toward him, he turns his head, mouths a few quiet words to which she smiles and nods. Then they continue to watch the youngsters. Fitz mimicks the effects of the weapon they uncovered and Ward thinks about how he failed. How he couldn't protect his younger brother. No, not brother, Fitz is not his brother, he's just a colleague. But still. When he said "I will take care of you too," it was like Billy all over again.

That's why Grant stands there, in the distance and tells himself that he doesn't belong. He doesn't deserve, doesn't want. He's not a team player, how many times does he have to...

"Will you finally stop lurking?" Jemma asks all of the sudden and glares straight at him through the glass. Her tone is reproachful, but her eyes sparkle with mischief and her lips widen in a soft smile. "We all know that our own big damn hero feels embarrassed that he was saved by a braniac but would you stop sulking, please. We can very well infer, that you knocked out as many of those bad guys with your fists, as Fitz did with that super weapon. Your position isn't threatened. Besides I'm sure Fitz wouldn't even want it. He's simply basking in a one-day glory of it all. Tomorrow we'll all be looking to you for protection once again."

Grant bites back on his uncertainty and schools his features. "Don't be ridiculous," he says, emerging from the shadows. "I'm not ashamed. I would have taken them all out if I was working alone." He knows his denial reinforces their suspicions about some hero-complex they think he's having. As long as they don't get to the core of it. As long as they don't guess the truth.

They burst with laughter and he pretends indignation. Jemma scoots away and pulls him down on the couch between herself and Fitz. She pats his shoulder, Fitz pouts for a moment but then Skye quips, "Ward just can't appreciate how lucky he was that he had you," and Fitz's face brightens as he nods. And Grant can't restrain himself any longer, he smiles too and takes the bottle of beer from Jemma's hand and really feels like he hadn't in years.

He feels as if Billy was right next to him and they had one of their brief respites.

He feels home.

* * *

t.b.c.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Chapter Four - post 1x08 "The Well"

**Trigger warning** – aggressive, dub-con sex (sex is non-explicit, but aggression may be considered explicit – for me it's a logical follow-up of the episode, so I'm not the best judge)– near the end of the chapter.

* * *

When he entered her room, May was pouring whisky to the two glasses set on a small table near the window.

"_Uisce beatha_," she said handing him the tumbler. "Water of life."

The name couldn't be more apt. Grant let the alcohol burn a path down his throat and instantly extended his hand for a refill. Irish single malt, trust Melinda May to pick the best the little hotel had in store. The buzz from the earlier shot, down in the bar, was already settling at the back of his skull.

May took a step toward one of the arm-chairs and slid onto it with a barely perceptible sigh. Rested her head against the cushion and closed her eyes. She didn't talk, bless her.

Grant took the other chair and hoped he could relax the way she seemed to. His thoughts were running a mile a minute though, memories jumbled together, of Billy hurt in thousands possible and impossible ways, of Terry's incessant presence. And fear, so much fear. The magical berserker staff unearthed Grant's rage, his hatred. A feeling he didn't want, was ashamed of – after all, whatever Terry was, he was also, or maybe most of all, Grant's brother. Nonetheless, hatred was not a feeling he would associate with Terry above all . No, his brother's specialty was inducing scare in others. Panic. Grant felt a chuckle build up in his throat as he remembered what he'd told Simmons earlier. He didn't panic. Ever. He was immune after all those years. There wasn't anything in this world that could frighten him the way his insane superpowered psychopath of a brother could.

"How long ago have you joined S.H.I.E.L.D.?" asked a soft voice and it took Grant a moment to find his bearings. Where he was. Who he was with. Not with Terry anymore.

A question was asked.

"I, uh…" He had to recall words, remember their meanings. Then do the math: how long since they took Terry? Then, how long since he was gone for good? Joining S.H.I.E.L.D. was somewhere in between. "About twelve years," Ward breathed out, then opened his eyes and looked at May. She scrutinized him with her lips pursed.

"You can't be much older than thirty," she declared.

Ward noticed his glass was empty. He leaned to the table and poured himself another shot, then he remembered to be polite and gestured toward May. She nodded, of course, and placed her tumbler next to his, her eyes still dissecting, expectant. Grant ignored her. For a while. When she took the glass up to her lips, he leaned back again and closed his eyes.

"Am not," he muttered. Sighed, rolled his arms trying to relieve the tension that didn't seem to dissipate, the amount of alcohol notwithstanding. "Will be thirty one. In January."

Melinda was quiet for a few moments; all he heard was a sound of swallowing and an exhale. Then, "You must have been eighteen when you joined."

T'was true. "As soon as I was legal." He took a small sip himself. Let it fester inside his mouth before he downed it.

"What did you do?" May asked and Ward looked at her, startled, furrowed his eyebrows in a silent question. "That they wanted you in," she clarified. "You must have done something."

"Nothing much. Had to prove myself for a little while and, obviously, I did well."

"Yeah, but..." There was something in her face he hadn't seen before and never thought she'd be capable of. Almost childish curiosity, only more intense, predatory. Ward wondered how much she'd drunk already, that she was so... open. Her tumbler was empty again. "Why did they _want_ you?"

"They didn't. It was I. I wanted to join and they agreed." The moment those words left his mouth, Grant realized he'd said too much. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't just let people in. There was no drafting board where anyone could sign up. They were picking people up from all over the world, the best and the brightest. Geniuses like Fitz and Simmons, skilled fighters from Marines or Naval school. Now, S.H.I.E.L.D. was more-or-less public knowledge, what with Norse Gods turning out to really be aliens from another planet, but twelve years ago, it was a secret government organization. Average citizen had no idea such a thing as S.H.I.E.L.D. existed.

Of course Melinda May was aware of it as well as he was, if not better.

"No shit," she called him on it . "How could you know about S.H.I.E.L.D. at eighteen? There's no way."

There was way, actually, if your closest kin had special abilities. But did he want to divulge it now? Ward moved his tumbler in a circular motion and watched the golden swirl wash around its sides.

"You're right," he muttered. He'd slur if he was just a tad drunker. "I'm making this up." He tilted the glass to his mouth and gulped down the remaining liquid, then set it on the table with a more forceful thud than was necessary. "Thanks for the drink." He stood up and walked for the door.

"Hey, wait up!" Melinda called after him. "Where do you think you're going?" He heard her stand up and he didn't, he really didn't want to turn around, but she said, "You can't just walk away like this."

"Yeah?" He faced her abruptly. "I can't? Okay, you're right, let's talk…" He didn't want to do this, but he found himself stepping toward her, defense-turned-offense. "That thing, remember, one you mentioned earlier. Thing you see every day." He watched her face harden with each word he uttered. "Want to talk about that?"

"No."

"Didn't think that you would."

Her lips set, she let out a breath through widened, flaring nostrils. He could almost see her boil inside, fists clenched at her sides, only relaxing when the message got through. He didn't actually want to ask her. But he'd also appreciate if she didn't ask him. She breathed in and out once more and nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Ward was about to aim for the door again when she walked right to him, stopped just so they were inches apart. "You don't have to go," she whispered. "I tried small-talk, but that was stupid, sorry. It's neither you, nor me." She was too near for him to feel comfortable. Well inside his personal space. His heart hammered inside his rib cage, like it wanted to punch her away.

She touched his arm and he started.

"Easy, tiger."

She inched even closer, pressed her body against his, and his back against the wall and all he wanted was to run, get out of here, breathe! But his body betrayed him. He felt something stir in his pants, against her hip and she felt it too. There was no getting out.

Ward gripped her arm tighter than he probably should have, fighting two conflicting impulses – to push her away or to grab her, touch her, fight her. He leaned to her expectant lips and crushed them with violent craving.

Not knowing how, he found himself on her bed, shirt torn from his torso, her blouse pulled up, squeezing her brest so hard she yelped and slapped his cheek. "Don't you hurt me," she hissed.

He wanted to hurt. Her, himself, no matter. He didn't believe she didn't feel the same urge, not after berserker. He saw that fire in her eyes, even now. Hate. Rage. How did she manage to control it?

If she could, he also had to.

He closed his eyes and took a few ragged breaths. She was still under him, motionless, only her palms resting on his arms, too hot, burning. Grant blinked, looked into her dark pupils and leaned, slowly this time, gently. Kissed her. Her lips burned too.

Damn, he only wanted to drink himself stupid, when did this become... this?

Felt his eyes sting and pads of Melinda's fingers brush his cheek. His neck, fingernails scratching down his sternum, gentle, barely there. And lower, around his navel and to buckle of his belt.

Alright, he did want this. He wanted her, he wanted closeness. Grant Ward, agent who thought he didn't need anyone and best worked alone, allowed himself to get lost in the intimacy Melinda May, the renowned Cavalary, best non-superpowered fighter, had to offer.

* * *

t.b.c.

**A/N:** So, I think I need to add the explanation. Do I? Anyway...  
Disclaimer: I borrowed Terrance Ward from Marvel Comics "Avengers: the Initiative". Heard that rumor somewhere, have no idea if it's valid in any way, but it clicked in my head so hard, I simply had to. No infringement intended.


End file.
